Why I Hate Taxi Drivers, Part 781

I hate taxi drivers.

No, this isn't merely a simple restating of my blog title. I just loathe the satanic subcreatures so much that it warrants repeating ad nauseum.

I hate taxi drivers.

All told, I have probably been inside a taxi five or six times. Out of those five or six times, there has been a 100% rate of suck. Last Friday was no exception.

I traveled down to Florida to visit my mom in Miami for a few days. Because it's cheaper (which is often appealing for thrifty bastards like myself), I flew into Fort Lauderdale Airport instead of Miami International. Unfortunately, my Mom was unable to get off from work, so we agreed that I would simply take an airport taxi to her office. She found out that Tri-County Taxi offered a flat rate of $26; considering it was a 45-minute drive, the price was certainly right.

Once I reached Ground Transportation, I informed Tri-County's front desk of my intention to take them up on their namesake so they could take me to my out-of-whatever-Ft. Lauderdale's-county-is destination. Within five minutes, a taxi pulled up with two passengers already in the back. All I had to do was sit down, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

You know where this is going. Or...do you?

*cue ominous organ music*

Nah, you still do.

The taxi driver asked me where I was headed. I told him the exact location of my Mom's work, to which he responded...and I quote..."Are you freaking kidding me?" I responded to his inquiry with a profoundly simple, "Nope." He then posed the question, "Do you know how freaking far that is?" I kindly explained that I was fully aware of the distance from the proverbial "Point A to Point B", but my circumstances prevented me from having a whole helluva lot to do about it. Continuing his streak of asking questions with the word 'freaking', he asked, "Do you know it's freaking rush hour?"

It was 3:45. Oh, and I hate taxi drivers.

At this point, I truly didn't know what was sadder: the fact that I was even having this conversation or the fact that I immediately started to wonder how I was going to blog about it.

In the midst of our growingly heated discussion, my mom called to see if I got into the taxi yet. While I was talking to her, the driver interjects with a request that she meets us halfway. In turn, I interjected with the best "kiss my ass" look I could muster on such short notice. After I got off the phone with my mom, the driver turned to the couple in the backseat and informed them that he was going to have to "go out of their way" and drop me off before he got them to their final destination of South Beach.

For the sake of clarification, Fort Lauderdale is north of my mom's work...which is north of South Beach. Do the math, and you can see that El Driver was engaging in excess amounts of the bullshit...bullshit that the backseaters bought hook, line, and sinker. The male passenger then let us know that this was going to "make him late for the studio" where he needed to "lay down tracks at 8 o'clock."

It was 3:50.

So this is just great. I got Snoop in the back who is ten kinds of pissed at me, which was later exacerbated by the driver's comments that Snoop "looked like he wanted to beat me up". A quick glance in the side-view mirror confirmed that yes, he was ready to engage in some violence on my vertically-challenged frame. I quickly forgot about how I was going to blog on this whole ordeal, as I learned that it's hard to be witty when you're trying to envision how your life would be described after the words, "He was 26 years old."

The remaining 40 minutes of taxi driving funnery proved to be just as migraine-inducing, mainly because I continually had to wonder how the driver would manage to drive on I-95, swear at old people, and text message his friends at the same time without crashing into something made of cement or metal. Thankfully, I did make it to said destination with all my vital organs intact (keep that thought in mind for later in the story). I felt bad when my mom came out to meet me, as her "It's so good to see you" was immediately greeted with my "Wait til you hear this shit."

A couple of days later, I called Tri-County Taxi to complain. I was connected with the manager, Nay, who initially tried to dismiss said complaints because I apparently miswrote the car number. I gave her every other bit of information possible to try to prove that calling and bitching out taxi companies isn't really a pastime of mine. She finally allowed me the time to kvetch uninterrupted...for about ten whole seconds.

She asked mid-bitch, "But he got you there?"

"Yes, he did get me there, but you didn't let me finish. He then told me that the guy in the back looked like he wanted to beat m..."

"But he got you there?"

"Yes, but I'm still not done, because he then started swearing at..."

"But he got you there?"

I swear to God, I could have said, "Yes, but he also touched me in my no-no spot and called me Big Daddy," and she still would have asked if he got me to my final destination. Clearly, I was not winning this argument, so I begrudgingly conceded...

"He got me there."

Sadly, that's the end of my story. No comeuppance. No "but Dan wins in the end." My only hope is that someone Googles "Fort Lauderdale Airport Taxi" and comes across this posting. It's the only chance I have to procure even a fraction of smidgeon of an iota of a moral victory.

I hate taxi drivers.

And their bosses.

Until next time...
Dan